


the fake and the fool

by timelordswillwasteyou



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fushimi gets fucked up, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, OR IS IT, Reconciliation, Sarumi Fest 2018, Unrequited Love, but there's a new chapter now and it's much fluffier, experimentation with Strain powers, pre-reconciliation but post-S1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-25 02:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14966990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelordswillwasteyou/pseuds/timelordswillwasteyou
Summary: For all his sharp blades and sharper mind, Fushimi finds he is unprepared for an attack on his heart.





	1. glass, knives and blood

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head forever and finally wrote it. I hate myself, too, don't worry.
> 
> (notice the warning for graphic stuff. Nothing too intense, but there's quite a lot of blood, and Fushimi (in classic Fushimi fashion) misuses his red aura as well, so read the tags and proceed with caution)

They have the Strain surrounded.

The streets are quiet, the rubble from destruction wrought by the Strain and the Red King slowly settling and eerily illuminated by the sun high overhead. As the dust clears Fushimi can just barely see the half-destroyed corner building serving as Homra’s temporary hideout. The red clan and Scepter 4 are holding posts on either end of this street, rubble from the day’s fighting blocking it on either end, and the Strain they’ve been chasing is caught within the makeshift perimeter they’ve set up. They are using Anna’s red marbles to communicate with the other clan, having formed a tenuous alliance with them in order to take out this dangerous Strain, whose powers remain unknown. The last person to see him (or her – the person they’re trying to apprehend moves so quickly Fushimi cannot be sure) was none other than Homra’s third-in-command, their vanguard, and the one person who – if Fushimi cared to admit it to himself, which he doesn’t – he wishes weren’t currently going after the Strain.

But he is, and all Fushimi can do is wait. And he must have found the Strain, because as Fushimi’s eyes track the blown-out windows of the surrounding buildings, he can see flashes of movement and hear the occasional crash as Misaki apparently fights the person in question in the halls. His eyes flick back to the street, scanning his surroundings. Seri is to his left, and looks composed as ever save for the fact that her gaze keeps flickering to the corner where the rest of Homra (and, incidentally, their second-in-command) are standing by. Munakata is still and stoic as ever to his right, standing with all the authority of a King in front of the group of Scepter 4 members, lifting his marble to his lips to speak into it quietly every so often. His eyes are calm, but he holds his worry in his shoulders and Fushimi can tell by the set of them that he is anxious. And he should be: For all their fighting, they still have little to no idea what they are actually dealing with.

That thought and more crashes from behind them bring his attention back to the battle raging between Misaki and the Strain. Through Munakata’s marble, he hears muffled fragments of words, “can’t hold him” and “Blues” and “headed your way,” and Fushimi barely has time to slip a knife from a harness on his inner left sleeve into his palm before he’s startled by the shrill sound of glass breaking and someone bursts from a building just in front of them and onto the street.

Glass from the shattered window rains down in the person’s wake. Munakata’s shoulders square off toward the intruder as he gives the order to draw swords. Fushimi’s free hand goes to his hilt, and he begins to unsheathe his blade, never taking his eyes off the figure before them. When the sound of tiny glass shards hitting asphalt dies down, there is an uncanny moment of total silence as all of Scepter 4 and Homra, swords and flames at the ready, hold their breath and train their eyes on the figure crouching in the street.

Then the cloud of rubble from the hard landing clears, and from it comes a scream of his name.

Fushimi tenses, confused, and is aware of the rest of his unit reacting similarly around him. A moment later, the figure starts moving toward them, its gait awkward as if dragging an injured leg. He hears Munakata start to give another order, but another shout of his name comes, a shrill, “Saruhiko!” as he watches the person’s head move frantically from side to side, searching, and Fushimi _knows_ that voice, he knows that head, and the figure comes into full view at the same time a quiet, desperate, “Saru?” reaches his ears, and that’s it. Fushimi drops his sword, dismissing his aura as he takes off toward an injured and scared Misaki.

Some part of his mind is questioning why Misaki came here, when his precious clan is just at the other end of the street, just out of view of where they are now; some part of his mind registers someone - Akiyama, he thinks - calling something out to him; but most of his mind is already assessing where Misaki might be injured, what needs to be done, how can he fix it, what does Misaki need, Misaki, Misaki, _Misaki_.

He reaches the red clansman after what feels like far too long for how fast he was running. Misaki starts to fall to his knees, but Fushimi is there to catch him, to instead lower him gently to the ground and support his trembling body with gentle hands and eyes sweeping over his injuries. He forces his mind to make a list, forces himself to be methodical because if he doesn’t then he’ll think about what the injuries – _sprained ankle, deep slash in the left shoulder, lower two ribs broken, blood from the temple_ – mean, what they could mean if they aren’t treated as soon as possible. He’s cradling Misaki’s face, not thinking, shouting at Munakata, at Awashima, at someone, anyone, call the medical team, call an ambulance, fix it, fix him – when Misaki gives another weak call of his name and all Saruhiko’s shouting dies on his lips as Misaki lifts a hand to his neck, running his thumb along the pulse and staring up at Saruhiko with something like adoration in his eyes. Fushimi feels his eyes widening; adoration – could it really be? Oh, Misaki, he thinks, and doesn’t really he’s said it out loud until the boy smiles up at him in a way that makes Fushimi’s heart pound like he hasn’t allowed it to since he left Homra.

“Misaki,” he says again, aware this time he’s speaking out loud. “Misaki. Tell me what you need. I don’t know…I don’t know what you – “ and then he has to stop because Misaki is leaning up as best he can with two broken ribs, saying his name in that soft, fond way, and then his other hand comes up to tuck Fushimi’s bangs, damp with terrified sweat, behind his ear.

“Saru,” he says, eyes searching. “Saru, you’re here, Saru, Saruhiko,” he rambles, then chokes on a sob, his eyelashes lowering as they dampen with his tears, and no, that isn’t right, Misaki shouldn’t cry, shouldn’t be sad, but then Misaki says, “I’ve only ever needed you,” and his head is lifting back up, his eyes happy, and _oh_ , thinks Fushimi, as his eyes search Misaki’s and his head tilts down and his lips part and his hands clench in Misaki’s shirt and his heart pounds into his throat, _that’s what this is_.

Fushimi’s world narrows down to this: Misaki’s hands, warm and trembling on his neck and cheek; Misaki’s lips, wet from his tongue that keeps darting out, parting in low mumbles of his name, over and over, said in the way Fushimi has never let himself dream about but has always, _always_ craved; Misaki’s eyes, still searching his own, coming closer and closer with each breath, the brown in them bright and hopeful. Fushimi’s own eyes are fluttering, threatening to close, but something prevents them, something is off. He hears himself let out a whisper of Misaki’s name, questioning, before he realizes what it is, a beat too late.

A searing pain erupts in his side, just below his ribs, and his eyes cannot even widen with surprise, because he knew, knew in that deep, cruel part of himself that this was too good to be true. He can only gaze down at the Strain, their faces still close, as his breath stutters now for a familiar reason, from pain, physical and mental, and he thinks, _brown eyes_.

Misaki’s eyes are amber.

Fushimi chokes out a breath, coughing blood onto the Strain’s face, which starts to shift grotesquely back into his own form as his shrill laugh begins to fill the street, and Fushimi is reminded, in his pain-addled brain, of the shattered window from before. He is distantly aware of Scepter 4 organizing themselves behind him, probably just recovering from the shock of seeing one of their own stabbed in the stomach in front of them. The Strain stands up, releasing his grip on Fushimi and letting him collapse in a boneless heap on the street, and Fushimi is cognizant enough even through the blinding pain in his side (his spleen, he thinks, as the blade still inside him slices through all other coherent thought) to land facing away from his clan to spare them the pain on his face. His mind is already working through the haze, though, working overtime, cataloging and listing off the things he needs to do – _lie on the side, hold the blade in place, prevent excessive blood loss_ – because if he lets himself think about how the blood is already spreading, how the heated asphalt is burning his entire right side, how he had thought, for that blissful moment, that his Misaki wanted him, finally understood how he felt and still _wanted_ him, then he will not be able to function, and he has already figured out what he needs to do.

He closes his eyes, grimaces, tries to get the pain under control. Tells himself pain is psychological, that he can overcome it, that he’s stronger than this, fights against the voice always telling him otherwise. Behind him, he hears the Strain addressing Scepter 4, taunting them and making demands and spouting all kinds of nonsense unimportant to Fushimi’s current goal, so he tunes it out. He thinks he can move now without the pain bleeding into his expression, so he rolls onto his back to observe his clan.

His King, unsurprisingly, has kept his composure, his gaze calm as he regards the unstable Strain, but Fushimi can recognize his worry in the clenching of his jaw and by the way his hand keeps tensing and releasing around the blade at his hip. The Strain turns a little, leaving Munakata be temporarily while he tries to get a rise out of Awashima, and Munakata meets his eyes.

For Fushimi’s plan to work, he will have to be silent. He will need his unit to keep the Strain occupied, distracted. He will need – and this is perhaps the most difficult part – to stand up. He is lucky to have in Munakata someone clever enough and attuned enough to Fushimi’s brand of cleverness to understand in a glance what Fushimi is trying to convey and, most importantly, to give his comprehension away only to Fushimi and not to the Strain still facing him.

Fushimi will have to find a backhanded way to express his respect for that man, later.

Now, though, the Strain has returned his attention to Munakata, is making demands Fushimi doesn’t care to listen to louder and more insistently than before, sounding frustrated and furious but still dangerously confident. Fushimi rolls all the way onto his left side, facing Scepter 4 fully now, reaching his right hand into his left sleeve and freeing a blade from the harness there.

His hand around the hilt, he starts to lift himself up onto his left elbow, internally grimacing at the pain still spreading through his body, deliberately not looking down his body at what he’s sure is a small pool of blood beneath him. When he goes to kneel, doubled over and eyes shut against the pulse of punishing pain, he hears the Strain let out a terrible screech, hears frantic footsteps heading his way, thinks maybe Munakata managed to take him out first.

He looks up just in time to be proven excruciatingly wrong for the second time that afternoon.

The blade in his side is forcefully yanked out of him, and he barely has time to drop his own knife and press a hand to the newly open hole in his side before he registers an all-encompassing pain, the nerves in his inner thigh exploding in searing heat as his right leg is sliced open, the cut deep enough to reach the artery, and as the nerves there scream so does Fushimi, unable now to keep it in, his legs giving out as he falls again, hard, onto the scorching street.

And again, Fushimi’s world narrows until he is aware only of his thigh, the renewed stab of pain he barely feels over the constant screaming and heat as he jabs a finger into the wound in an attempt to slow the gush of blood from the major artery, and, far in the background, that laugh, the cruel, earsplitting laugh of the Strain (or maybe it’s _that guy_ , returned to taunt him for failing his clan, for thinking someone cared for him, for being foolish, stupid, small; or it could be the voice, too, the one that’s taken up permanent residence in his mind – but is there really a difference between them, at this point?)

Distantly, he realizes the blade from his side was pulled out, and his free hand, his right one, goes halfheartedly to his side to press against the spreading warmth there. He thinks he hears the shouting of his unit, now – belatedly recognizes he rolled onto his right side again; no reason for his clan to see his face the way it must look now, or at least the subconscious part of his brain not consumed by shooting agony must have thought so – and when he focuses on the cacophony in an attempt to drown out the pain (it doesn’t work) he thinks he can hear Homra too, farther away but just as furious, and he hopes the real Misaki is okay, is uninjured, that he found the rest of his clan, that Anna and Kusanagi and whoever else will hold him back, keep him away from this Strain who so completely broke his body and his heart.

Focusing on that thought, tries to school his face into something close to neutral, pressing his hands harder into the twin wounds in his body and looking over his shoulder to assess the state of his unit. Everyone has drawn their swords, and most look frantic and furious and terrified, though he notices no one focused on him until he meets Munakata’s eyes again and sees, well-hidden but there, the desperation, the fear, and – and this is what Fushimi was searching for – the determination.

The Strain is still talking, pacing like a madman, but facing away from Fushimi. Munakata gives him an almost imperceptible nod.

Fushimi knows what he must do.

He turns his head away from his clan again. He focuses on his right thigh, the pain there still nearly overwhelming. He closes his eyes, reaching deep into himself where his auras live, finds the red aura that has been sleeping, sleeping but never gone. He calls it forth, focusing it into his left hand with its index finger pressed desperately into the slashed artery, and as the burning begins to overtake the phantom slicing of the blade, he finds he is able to relax into the familiar feeling of being scorched by his own hands, the familiar permeating smell of searing skin. It is a different kind of pain, but no less excruciating. As he feels the bleeding finally begin to slow, his impromptu cauterization almost complete, he distantly recognizes a sharp stinging in his right hand, realizes he removed the hand from the stab wound in his side to bite into his knuckles so hard blood now drips down his fingers and onto his wristbands, and he gets a grim sort of satisfaction in the visible teeth marks there, a symbol of his resolve. He hadn’t made a sound.

With his left hand freed, his right returns to his side, and he begins to roll over, looking toward Scepter 4 again. They look more than ready for the inevitable impending battle, and with a final taunt from the Strain there is a powerful pulse of blue aura that Fushimi feels both within and outside himself as Munakata leads off the attack against the man. 

An oddly mesmerizing dance begins, the clash of swords against the Strain’s blades and flashes of blue consuming the urban landscape. And alongside the blue, the occasional burst of red, of flame, and Fushimi thinks, wildly, of Misaki’s hair and aura and _being_ , and it gives him the motivation he needs to clamber, less than elegantly but quietly, to his feet.

His leg aches and protests, but it fades into the background as his task consumes the forefront of his mind. He starts toward the Strain, who is keeping up his taunts in the face of Scepter 4’s onslaught, telling them they’ve underestimated his power and he’s already taken out one of them, he can do it again, any time he wants. Fushimi grins; it seems the Strain didn’t even think to check that he finished what he started. Fushimi wants to make him pay, not for wounding him, likely fatally, but for imitating Misaki, trying to replace his beautiful Misaki, his bright Misaki. Fushimi will make him pay.

The thought consumes him. He approaches the Strain from behind, and he’s still clueless. _Idiot_ , Fushimi thinks, with what he’s sure is a manic grin plastered onto his face. He shakes his left arm, and a knife is released from the harness and slides into his hand, covered in charred blood. He imagines the picture he must make, walking slowly but with purpose, blade in one hand and the other pressed to his leaking stomach, limping and reeking of burnt flesh.

He smiles.

He has reached the Strain now. The man is still throwing knives, flitting left and right to avoid the streaks of soaring blue aura, brimming with confidence, saying things like, “You cannot best me! I will dodge all your attacks!”

Fushimi grabs him from behind by the chest and pulls him against his front, raising the knife to his throat. Feels it work as the Strain swallows against his hold, feels the veins he wants to carve into and sever. Lifts up on his toes, his leg throbbing in pain (or is it excitement? Is there even a difference between them?) to whisper in his ear, “Dodge this.”

He slices across the Strain’s carotid artery. Satisfaction floods him like the blood that cascades onto his hands. The Strain makes an abhorrent gargling noise as his own blood chokes him, and then he’s crumpling to the street in a twisted, broken heap.

Fushimi stares at him for a beat. Then he looks up, finds Munakata’s eyes, violet and calm. Smiles, if he ever stopped; says, “Mission accomplished, Captain.”

His legs give out as an afterthought, and he drops as gracefully as he can to the ground. He’s sure his face remains impassive; he barely even registers the pain, anymore. Munakata is calling for the medical team, and then informing Homra of the situation, telling them it’s safe to come out. Fushimi just lays on his side, the asphalt that before burned now soothing his broken body. He stares at the pooling blood around the dead Strain, his eyes wide with surprise even with the life drained from them. He reaches out to touch it, suddenly desiring to feel the heat of it on his fingertips, but he runs out of energy to do it halfway through and his arm falls limply to the ground. It feels wet, and some part of him recognizes that this must be his own blood, and he thinks he should probably keep a hand over the hole in his side but can’t bring himself to care much about it. Munakata is still speaking calmly somewhere above him, and he hears Awashima too, sounding significantly less calm, and then, somewhere very far away, a shout of his name, reminiscent of the one that got him into this mess. But Fushimi has stopped pretending he is strong, has never been able to resist the sound of that voice, so he rolls onto his back and flops his head to the side to locate its source.

He must have lost his glasses at some point, because everything is blurry, as if he’s observing his environment through a glass of water. But his ears tune into that voice, the desperate, “Saruhiko!” He registers his head falling back, and then the warmth of foreign (yet familiar, so familiar) hands catching it before it can hit the pavement, and then that voice is talking to him, calling his name again, saying, Saruhiko, Saru, Saru, and he closes his eyes and lets it wash over him. This is all he needs. Just Misaki’s voice, calling for him. Just Misaki.

It is all he can hear as the noise in his mind quiets and the brightness of the sun over his eyelids fades into blackness.


	2. rice, tea and chopsticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saruhiko wakes up, and Misaki cries. Somehow they work everything out from there.
> 
> Written for Sarumi Fest 2018, Day 5: Fight/Reconcile. Also on [tumblr](https://kmorelikegay.tumblr.com/post/175801218378/rice-tea-and-chopsticks).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote a second part sooner than planned because it happened to fit perfectly with a theme for Sarumi Fest! will probably write more on this at some point but I needed to give them some fluff after the shit I put Fushimi through in the last chapter. enjoy :)

The first time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is to the sight of the Blue King standing over Saruhiko’s sleeping form, lightly touching the back of the hand Yata isn’t gripping. His eyes are closed, and he’s muttering something under his breath, and if Yata concentrates through bleary eyes and a sleep-addled mind he thinks he can see airy blue tendrils drifting into the space directly above where Munakata and his injured friend are touching.

His immediate reaction is to yank the King’s hand away from Saruhiko and demand an explanation for why he’s touching his Saru, why he’s even _here_ , but – then he really _looks_ at their hands again, really looks at Munakata’s face, and he looks _sad_ , emotional like Yata’s never seem him, and then he really looks at Saruhiko’s face, and even as he watches some of its pallor gives way to a healthier-looking flush, and even the most defensive part of Yata’s brain recognizes that Saruhiko’s King must be using some healing property of the blue aura on him. His body slowly loses its grip on its fight instinct as he recognizes this, and he relaxes, letting the tiredness take over again a little, and turns back to gaze at Saruhiko’s (handsome – has he always been so handsome?) – face.

A few minutes later, Munakata finishes whatever he is doing, and Yata hears him shift, turns to watch him break out of the trancelike state he was in, watches as his eyes open and sees the worry and fear and relief fill them all at once before he realizes he is being watched. Yata doesn’t think he has ever been this close to the Blue King, and his first thought at he meets that piercing violet gaze is that he doesn’t know how Saruhiko and his coworkers manage it if they have to be the subject of this man’s calculating eyes all the time. But he is Saruhiko’s King, so Yata has some amount of respect for him despite himself, and he forces himself to hold eye contact as Munakata begins to speak.

“He is recovering well,” he starts, removing his hand from Saruhiko’s as he speaks. “I have helped him where I can, but I believe I have done all I can do. I do not know if they have told you, but he should be able to be released within the week,” he continues, giving Yata a soft smile that Yata thinks should look out of place with his always-professional demeanor but somehow fits him, softens him, makes him look like a concerned parent or older sibling, and Yata relaxes even more; this man is definitely not a threat to Saruhiko, and Yata hadn’t realized how much he cared about his employee. Maybe – and Yata thinks this begrudgingly, but this time with sympathy and even with understanding – maybe this man really was meant to be Saruhiko’s King. Maybe this was always who he belonged with. Yata breaks eye contact at the thought, feeling a confusing mix of contentment for Saruhiko’s happiness, and even his defection from Homra, and of jealousy, for belonging somewhere that isn’t with Yata.

Before Yata can wallow in his thoughts too much, the man catches him off guard again with an even wider disarming smile, adding, “I think he will be safest and happiest in your capable hands, Yata-kun,” as if he can read Yata’s _mind_. (Hell, maybe he can; Saruhiko did always say his ability to read people was disconcerting. Maybe he’d meant it literally.)

Either way, though, Munakata lets his gaze drift from Yata to linger on Saruhiko again, and gives his hand one last gentle pat before turning and striding to the door. Yata notices, then, that he isn’t in his uniform, is wearing jeans and a casual collared jacket instead, and he looks so different and _young_ like that that Yata almost laughs.

As if the Blue King knew Yata was watching him leave, he turns around after he’s pushed open the door and is standing in the doorframe and says, “I believe you have an apartment nearby, Yata-kun?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “Perhaps Fushimi-kun would be best off there until he recovers completely.” He gives Yata a knowing smile before disappearing through the door, and Yata has a moment to think about his words and his smirk, after which he feels his face flush for reasons he cannot understand. In truth, he had been thinking the same thing; but something about how Munakata suggested it gave Yata the impression he knows something Yata doesn’t. It’s a little unsettling, but not unsettling enough to keep Yata awake when he is so tired from staying up to keep an eye on Saruhiko these past couple of days (has it really only been a couple of days?) and as soon as his head hits the pillow he’d snatched from the vacant second bed in Saruhiko’s room he is out like a light again.

Even in sleep, his grip on Saruhiko’s hand never falters.  
-  
The second time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is because his hand is being squeezed quite roughly, and he lifts his head to find Saruhiko watching him.

It is so good to see his eyes again. It had been so good just to see his chest moving up and down with his breath that Yata thought that would always be enough, just to have that evidence that he’s alive, but now, seeing his eyes again, Yata doesn’t know how he ever thought anything else would be enough.

They are so blue, and Yata is so breathless with relief and something else that his first words to Saruhiko then aren’t anything normal at all. Instead, what comes out is, “Oh, good. I thought you were going to let your rice get cold again.”

Saruhiko had still been staring at him, but at Yata’s words his brow furrows and he looks down at his lap, where indeed a plastic tray stretched across the bed presents to him a bowl of lukewarm rice accompanied by a cup of tea and a pair of chopsticks. While Saruhiko takes in the food, Yata takes the opportunity to study his profile – the line of his nose, the fall of his lashes against his upper cheekbone, the cascade of mussed and unwashed and beautiful hair over the far side of his face, the part of his lips as he breathes before turning back to Yata and saying, “Misaki.”

Yata’s grip on his hand tightens even more, and he feels Saruhiko respond with a hard squeeze of his own, and then Yata can’t help it, he falls forward against Saruhiko’s chest and lets all of the emotion that fear and lethargy have kept at bay these past two days flow from his eyes onto Saruhiko’s hospital gown. Some distant part of his mind has the awareness to be surprised when Saruhiko doesn’t hesitate, just hugs Yata to him, tilts his head against the top of Yata’s, keeps squeezing Yata’s hand with a desperate grip. It’s as if he is just as afraid of Yata leaving again as Yata is, and that shouldn’t be possible, Saruhiko is the one who’s been asleep, _Saruhiko_ is the one who almost _died_ , but here he is, hugging Yata as if he could disappear at any moment.

Yata doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but it feels so good to hold each other, even if they haven’t actually talked beyond sniffles and snotty tears and desperate whispers of each other’s names. Eventually he pulls back, wipes his nose on the sleeve of the arm that isn’t still held happily hostage in their mutual death grip, and looks at Saruhiko for real for the first time since he’s woken up.

He looks pale and exhausted, but mostly he looks hopeful, and it takes Yata’s breath away. Hope looks good on him. Hope looks beautiful on him, and Yata has to ask, has to know, so he starts, “Saruhiko,” he says, “Saru, do you – do you remember what happened? Why you’re here?”

Saruhiko regards him a moment longer before breaking their gaze and regarding the rice and tea and chopsticks and plastic tray instead. He squeezes Yata’s hand again, nods slowly, then looks away from Yata at the far wall, but not before Yata sees that he’s _blushing_ , and it’s cute as hell but it won’t do, not since Yata knows it’s not out of embarrassment but out of fear, and he doesn’t want fear on Saruhiko’s face, wants to put the hope back on it (hope looks beautiful on him), so he says in a too-fast rush of breath, “I want it.”

Saruhiko’s head whips back and his eyes start searching Yata’s face for any trace that Yata is joking, just messing with him, as if he would joke about something like this – and doesn’t Saruhiko know, anyway? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s heart pound, that he makes Yata feel smart and loved and needed? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s life interesting, worth living – that even when they fought more than they talked, he was what made Yata get out of bed in the morning, made him look forward to the day? Doesn’t he know that for Yata, he has always, always been it?

But he knows that Saruhiko _doesn’t_ know, but Yata is still smiling because he will. He will. And as he leans in he sees Saruhiko’s eyes quickly cycle through the stages of acceptance – denial, confusion, anger, confusion again, and then, finally, _understanding_ – and Saruhiko’s eyes that reflect his happiness and that flutter shut and Yata’s mouth closes in on his tell him the rest of what he needs to know.

_I want it, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos saved Fushimi's life!
> 
> (a/n: wow, two fics in two days, i'm on a roll for once in my life)

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself except i'm sorry? but notice the lack of a character death tag.....I do plan to write a second part at some point. Anyway, comments and feedback so appreciated as always
> 
> (10 points for finding each a star wars and a matrix reference because I'm a fucking nerd)


End file.
